


fighting yourself

by confusedpups



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Behind the Scenes, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e11 Battlefield, F/M, Minor Violence, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedpups/pseuds/confusedpups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson stands and goes back to the mirror. He stares at himself, his empty self loathing self and focuses. Don’t kill. Just, don’t kill. He battles, but the voice cracks into his brain, whispering, “She hates you. Everyone hates you. Hell, even you hate you. Why does it matter?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	fighting yourself

“Stay in the goal tonight, Danny. Do not come out. And if you see me coming towards you, run the other way. Run as fast as you can.”

 

Jackson walks away, far away, his teeth clenched and his jaw squared. Heading towards the sinks, his mind starts reeling. _You can’t do this. You’re going to kill someone_. His brain yells at him, the echo sending a sharp and stinging pain to his temple. He presses a hand against his head, trying to push the pain away, to no avail. One can’t just push pain away. Jackson of all people, knows that. Next, his knees buckle, sending Jackson stumbling, but he finds the sink and struggles to force himself up using his elbows. Then, the room starts spinning, each blue tile rushing by, blending into a quiet shade of paleness. The burning pain in his head turns into a ruthlessly loud pounding screaming in his ears. Jackson forcefully shuts his eyes, attempting to win the attack against his senses, to no success. Typical. Although Jackson is no novice to winning, the one person he never could beat is himself. Always fighting himself. the pain, the anger that filled him, constantly winning. Like usual, the pain won, making Jackson collapse to the cold floor of the locker room.

 

30 seconds. That’s all it takes. It’s all it takes for Jackson to wake up. And it’s all it would take for him to violently take a person’s life.

 

Jackson stands and goes back to the mirror. He stares at himself, his empty self loathing self and focuses. _Don’t kill. Just, don’t kill._ He battles, but the voice cracks into his brain, whispering, “She hates you. Everyone hates you. Hell, even you hate you. Why does it matter?”

 

Jackson yells back, “Because I _can’t_ break anybody else that I touch!” His fists clench and eyes shut. _Breathe. Calm down_.

 

It doesn’t stop though. “Oh, because _you_ break everyone you touch? Like your parents? Like her? They all abandoned you. Everyone’s going to abandon you, Jackson!” The voice snarkily snaps at him.

 

“Fuck!” Jackson shouts out in anger and swings his fist at the mirror. The mirror dents in the middle, with shards branching out, broken. A fitting metaphor. A once whole object, being so broken, shattered, with now, only a messed up reflection glaring back. Except, it isn’t really a metaphor of him. Jackson was never whole. _Not really_.

 

Jackson heads back to the team getting ready to go on the field, his blood boiling. Quite the opposite from the sweat shining off of his skin.

 

\---

 

3\. 2. 1. Game time. A whistle blows and the night has begun. Jackson is concentrated, focused. But, this time, not on the game. Keeping control. That’s all he has to do tonight.

 

\---

 

0:30. 30 seconds. Now, it really is game time.

 

Time for another fight. Against himself. _Again_.

 

He’s focused, in his headspace.

 

Then, he hears the name. Who to murder. _Gulp_.

 

\---

 

He always feels it. There’s a tingling numbness right before it happens. The transformation. First, it happens in his lower back. it’s a sharp, concise jolt of of something strange, something he can’t identify. As it works its way up the spinal cord, the fingernails turn into pointed claws. The scales begin climbing up the arms, like a tight shirt, covering the skin flawlessly, gripping to every crevice and muscle. When the eyes change, it’s like a narrowing perception. Tunnel vision. Once he’s fully turned, he’s still _there_. He can feel himself inside the body, just deeper. Like, he’s just down to a soul. Except he sees and feels everything. He can see the body getting ripped to shreds beneath him. He can feel their blood and raw flesh soaking his claws and scaled skin. But, he’s not in control. It’s not _him_ that’s doing it, yet it is. And he can’t do a single thing, not even speak an ‘I’m sorry.’

 

\---

 

The Sheriff. It’s a low whisper. It’s different from the voice usually in his head. Deeper, more commanding, less witty and sharp. Less demeaning.

 

Jackson starts panicking. He _can’t_ kill the Sheriff. Unfortunately, he has no time to panic.

 

His back starts tingling. He feels the claws growing by the seconds and his vision tunnels. He knows he has to do something. _Now_. He frantically looks around for an answer. And he finds it. _Her_.

 

She’s smiling, cheering and she looks so utterly beautiful. And he remembers. Remembers how she truly cares about people, once you get past her walls. And he knows he has to protect them. For her.

 

Jackson glances down, watching the claws. An idea ignites in him and he knows it will work.

 

Jackson reaches his rough hand under the jersey to his abdomen, and gasps as the cool scales make contact with his skin. He abruptly pushes the sharp claws until it breaks the skin. Jackson presses them deeper until his muscles flex involuntarily eliciting a whimper from the teenager. Jackson slowly, agonizingly tugs his hand across, digging long stripes of dark red on the skin. It’s sharp and it burns, like a knife dipped in lemon juice or an acidic solution. The poison hisses as it collides with crimson red blood and his body is on fire. Jackson experiences the sensation of his own blood trickling down his body, feels the blood soak his hands. He appreciates the sting though, being able to feel something besides the same old numbness. Even as the neurotoxin bites and flood through his flesh, Jackson sighs. And suddenly, he’s numb again and it’s black.

 

He did it. He stopped himself.

 

\---

 

When he awakes from the dark haze, Jackson looks down and he’s in a hospital bed. She’s there asleep in a visitor’s chair, her fingers entwining with his cold ones, and Jackson doesn’t stop the tear that quietly runs down his face. Jackson may not be a good person. And everyone may hate him, including himself. And he may be utterly lost and broken in every sense of the word, but she doesn’t _really_ hate him. She cares about him, enough to sleep in a hospital chair, whether or not she loves him, and that is enough to give him hope in his life.

 

Just her, yeah, Lydia is enough for him.


End file.
